New Year's Eve
by restlessheart94
Summary: A short insight in Russia's childhood.
1. Chapter 1

So – I decided to try myself a writing in English. Have mercy, please.

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New Year's Eve

The sun was gone.

It was cold.

New Year's Eve had come. Silently and without mercy. The streets of the city were freezing, ice clung to the bumpy alleys and fresh snow fell from dark and bleary skies. The streets were empty and void of all life – except from one small, huddled figure which could be seen in these backstreets, nothing more than a small shadow to anyone who paid it a glimpse. A forlorn orphan to those, who dared to watch the sad thing a little bit longer…

Singing voices could be heard from the small and filthy houses on each side of the lanes. Curtains were being drawn to keep the precious warmth of fires and stoves inside – so that they would never reach the small boy with the pale hair, who was wrapped into a small coat and a scarf and shivered from head to toe, while he walked those icy lanes.

No one saw the little boy, who hid his hands beneath his coat and jumped on the tip of his toes, to catch a small look into the windows of these warm houses. Sometimes he would find a window in which he could look and see a family preparing their Christmas roast, however small it may have be in these hard times. Whenever he saw one of these houses he would run to the closed doors, raise his hand to knock –

And ran away, before he even dared knocking.

Again and again.

The boy wandered through the streets. Aimlessly and without a home to go to, he stumbled through the alleys – forward. Nothing but forward. No happiness in his eyes, on the day that brought the new year, no mourning for that which had past.

His violet eyes were only directed to the windows and doors which were closed for him and the ground in front of his bare, frozen feet, which were covered in calluses and started to turn blue with the cold. His steps became slower and slower, when strength started to leave him and who looked at his small, puffy face could see that it was covered in helpless tears.

Although the boy seemed tall and strong for what could only be ten years or eleven of age, he lost more and more of the determination his delicate body had held before. Soon he only shuffled his way through the fresh snow, leaving nothing but small footprints behind for the world to ever see of him.

Coming from a place no one knew, on his way to a home than may never have existed…He stopped to look into the closed windows, only ever finding the curtains already drawn. Soon enough his small, thin legs started to wobble and he tripped over the uneven cobbles on the ground.

He fell into white, soulless snow, but as soon as he had hit the ground, he fought himself back onto his feet and stood up on shaky legs. Fearfully he looked around as if he was scared of a punishment for tripping, but no one came his way – no one looked for the delicate child with the silver-blond hair.

The frightened, unsure moment only lasted its own little while, but then something caught the boy's eye.

Right next to him was another house - and another wooden door. Still unsteady on his feet the boy hurried right towards it and raised his hand to knock…and hesitated once again.

He looked over his shoulder, worriedly, as if he'd fear someone would watch his misdeed. He shuffled on his naked feet. He seemed to wonder whether to run away or risk his luck.

Then, after a small eternity…

His small fist did knock on the wooden door. First silently – then a little bit stronger…until there were steps to be heard from beyond the closed door. At once the boy let his fist drop and made a small step back, his mind obviously still urging him to run, to run away from the danger. It was the cold and his empty stomach that made him stay.

The door was pushed open and warm air, carrying the smell of gingerbread and warm meat with it reached the boys nose – the gate to heaven only locked by a small, bald-headed man with small glasses on his nose than looked down on the small boy, disapprovingly.

The boy opened his mouth to talk, but he didn't utter a word – only showing the man his empty hands, which he had pulled out from beneath his warm coat for the first time.

The small, wiry man's brows knitted together and he started to curse at the small little boy.

"Hey! Go away! We don't need any beggars here! We don't want any of your kind! We don't have anything for our own children" With every word he edged closer towards the little boy. "Do you understand me?"

The boy grew nervous, trembling visibly, but still stretched his empty hands out towards the man, almost as if he was praying.

Suddenly the man snapped and slapped the kid right across the tear-stained face and he stumbled into the snow. "And don't you ever come back here."

The door fell shut with a loud bang, before the boy hand fought his way back to his feet. Clumsily the boy tried to stand up again – but he failed. He stumbled back into the snow. Only his fast and strained breathing betrayed him as alive.

A living being, discarded on the street.

The boy in the snow didn't seem to move as a shadow fell on top of him


	2. Chapter 2

II

When the boy came to himself he felt warm, wrapped into soft fabric, a fire crackling nearby. He didn't remember ever feeling that war before. Curiously his violet eyes opened and looked around. At once an elder lady with a grey bun and worn-out clothes ran to his side.

"Oh, love. You're awake…"

The boy opened his mouth as if to talk…but closed it again right away.

Warm blankets had been wrapped around his small, shivering body. The violet eyes refused to meet her warm, brown ones. The boy tried to take in the room, his eyes wide with childish wonder. It looked were nice to him. There was a fireplace, a shelf with many, many books and on the wall was a painting of the lady with to children at her hand. They smiled so nicely.

"Now – you look pretty starved, sweetheart." The lady crooned sweetly and the boy nodded without looking at her. "Well – we'll get some food in you. I was just making lovely koscha. What does sound like?"

The boy turned around to her and nodded eagerly. No one had ever offered him food. The thought to eat anything but scraps sounded…too tempting.

"That's great- What's you name again, love?"

The boy's eyes dropped once again, making him stare at the blanket she'd wrapped around him. It was a lovely shade of dark blue. He liked it.

"I- I don't have a name." He admitted and the lady smiled.

"What do you parents call you?"

"I don't know…any parents of mine. B-But the other people call me - Russia."

The lady didn't seem surprised – she just nodded. She must have heard stranger things before.

"But that's not a name for a little boy such as you are. I'm going to call you Ivan. Do you like the name Ivan?"

The boy seemed to think about it – then he nodded slowly.

"I like…Ivan." He decided, tasting his new name on his tongue. Then he smiled. "That's nice. I always wanted to have my own name…like all the others."

"Then I'm glad for you. My name is Katharina Braginski." She said. "Now – I will get you something to eat."

"Gospozha B-raginski?" He asked. "W-ould you allow me to…spend the night here? I…I can work, if you want to. I can clean and…"

"You can stay boy. As long as you want. Now – let me bring you some koscha, Ivan." She smiled sweetly and Ivan tried to remember this smile forever. He never knew what a smile really looked like before. People didn't smile at him. Now he knew how to smile. And if he'd smile…then people would maybe start smiling when he was around.

Ivan let his head fall back onto the cushions and his violet eyes found the fireplace. The fire that crackled in there was warm and smelled nice. He never felt so good in his whole life. He was warm. He decided he liked the warmth. He was like one of the humans. He felt like he was part of…whatever they were. And he liked it.

Above the fireplace, on the mantle, stood a small painting on a canvas…a still life with a big, yellow flower in a pot. Its blossom had warm, yellow petals around a dark core. He decided, he liked the picture.

He decided, the flower looked like the sun.

He loved the sun. The sun kept him warm.

He felt warm right now.

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I'd really love feedback - especially about my langauge, because I can't really estimate my mistakes and my flaws.


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